


Masquerade

by TrulyCertain



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6160060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A masquerade ball is held at the Fereldan palace to celebrate the closing of the Breach, and there Ellana Lavellan meets a mysterious stranger…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

Ellana taps her foot to the beat of the music, sighing. She’s never had time for this sort of thing. She’s Dalish: to the nobles here she is wild, barbaric. She was surprised - and rather displeased - to receive an invitation at all. She’d like to run back to Skyhold, but she can’t. Even though she’s masked, it wouldn’t be long before people noticed the sudden disappearance of “Inquisitor Lavellan”. The title still feels strange and unwelcome on her tongue.

A masquerade ball at the Fereldan royal palace, to celebrate the Inquisitor closing the Breach. She remembers scoffing. Pointless decadence - there’s rebuilding to be done, supplies to be delivered. People are acting as though this whole mess is finished. As though things will be _easy._

Pointless decadence, but she was made to attend all the same. Josephine insisted. Apparently, now that the Inquisition is no longer immediately needed, its reputation has to be built so that the established powers won’t attempt to turn on them.

“Established powers” like Ferelden’s king. Ellana barely saw him during the debacle at Redcliffe, too preoccupied with the horrors she’d seen in Alexius’ future to suck up to a monarch during the five minutes he was actually in the castle. She hasn’t seen him here, either; neither has anyone else. She wonders if he makes a point of avoiding these things. She can’t blame him - she has no time for politics herself - but it probably won’t do his reputation any good.

It’s been half an hour. A couple of nobles have recognised her and made a fuss. That’s enough to have her sick of this place. She makes her decision and turns, begins quietly making her way towards the door to “get some air” in the palace gardens. Whether she’ll come back is anyone’s guess.

There’s a man leaning against the back wall of the room, close to the door. His arms are crossed, and he regards the room with a mulish almost-pout. For some reason that amuses her, and as she passes him to get to the door, she asks, “Not your sort of thing either?”

He straightens and raises his eyebrows, letting out a surprised, “Huh?” He sounds Fereldan, and he’s broad - probably a soldier or a guard. As he turns to her, she sees that his mask is grey and blue, covering his face from below his eyebrows to his mouth. He says, “Not especially, no.” It’s wry, but there’s bitterness lurking behind it. He smiles. “I see you’re making a break for it.”

She grins at him.  “I was going for a breather in the gardens. Maybe you should do the same, judging from the look on your face.”

“Maybe you’re right.” He looks longingly to the door, that near-pout making a reappearance.

“It’ll get stuck like that, y’know. If you hold it any longer.”

He laughs. “Wise words. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. Just as long as you’re not some stuck-up noble, then we’re fine.”

His smile falters slightly, but then it returns in full, cheerful force. “Maker no. Not a noble, anyway. I can try for stuck-up, if you’d like?”

Much to her surprise, she finds herself laughing. “All right. I could think of worse company for a walk.”

“Why, my lady, I’m flattered,” he says dryly.

She grimaces. “Please, _no._ I’m not a noble either. I thought the ears would give it away.” She wonders if he’s recognised her. She doubts it, from the way he’s talking to her. Oddly, if anything, that makes her warm to him even more.

“Oh no, I just thought those were for decoration.” His tone is desert-dry. “All the rage in Orlais, I hear.”

She snorts, and the reaction appears to please him. She starts to walk, and he falls casually into step with her. His head is bowed, but he seems brighter just at the thought of escaping, a smile still on his face and his walk almost jaunty as they make their way to the door. When they go through it, he raises his head and breathes in the fresh air. “You’re right,” he announces after a moment. “Much better.”

The stars are out and the moon is full, illuminating the vastness of the palace grounds. Beyond a large lawn are flowerbeds and then trees, almost as if a forest waits at the end of the gardens. She stares for a moment, taking it all in, before she keeps walking. “It’s lovely,” she breathes.

He sighs. “I’ve always thought so. How people can get used to this sort of luxury, I’ll never know.”

“I doubt the king even knows what he has here.” She glances over at the door. “Speaking of which, I wonder if everyone’s still waiting for him to arrive.”

“Oh, I’m sure they are.” His voice is sour, and when she glances back to him, she sees that his shoulders are so tense that they’re nearly round his ears.

She wonders whether his ire is directed at the king or the nobles. Taking a guess, she asks, “What’s he ever done to you?” She tries to make it sound playful, to disguise her honest curiosity.

He runs a hand through his hair, huffing a bitter little half-laugh. “Believe me, it’s a long story.” Then he looks at her. His eyes are dark and sad in the moonlight.  “Sorry. I bet you’re regretting that ‘good company’ comment now, aren’t you?”

“I said ‘could be worse company,’” she reminds him. “There’s still a lot of room for manoeuvre in there.”

“So what, I could just be your _second-_ worst walking companion?” He grins, holds up his palms. “Please don’t answer that. Why are you at this” - he glances back at the palace, seeming to take in the enormity of it - “little shindig, anyway?”

She could tell him, she supposes, and become _Inquisitor Lavellan_ in his eyes, rather than _Ellana_. Instead, she just says, “I wasn’t too fond of the idea, but I was ‘strongly advised’ to attend.”

He practically beams at that. She takes in his warm eyes, his full mouth, and she belatedly realises that he’s probably quite handsome under the mask. Her cheeks heat, and she looks at the grass beneath her feet so she won’t have to meet his gaze.

“That makes two of us,” he replies. “Really, I’d much rather be out somewhere hitting things with swords. Maybe facing certain death.”

“That makes two of us,” she echoes. “A pack of angry wolves, I can deal with. Angry nobles? No.” She sighs. “I’ve heard more muttering about ‘upstart knife-ears’ tonight than I have for most of my life.” She finds that she’s staring longingly at the woods, almost wanting to slip into the trees and hide. Things were so much easier there.

She’s surprised when she looks back to him and sees real anger on his face. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that. Especially not after all that’s happened. They all love forgetting that the Hero of Ferelden was an elven mage. That the Inquisitor is an elf. One minute they’re thanking you for saving their arses, the next they’re stabbing you in the back. Not that we should expect anything else, I suppose.”

He’s using the general _you,_ as far as she can tell - he definitely must not know who she is - and he can’t know how true his words are. She’s done her fair share of “arse-saving” over the past few months, and outside of the Inquisition, the response to that has been… mixed.

They reach the trees, and she leans against a trunk. Her eyes are on the ground, and though it’s a warm night, she’s shaking slightly. “Oh, don’t worry, no-one’s said it _directly._ That makes it _so_ much better.”

He watches her sadly. “I know it’s not much, but they’ll go for anything that’s different. Elves, dwarves, people without enough noble blood for them… They’re idiots. Just ignore them.” He looks up at the stars, exhaling a tired sigh. “Truth be told, I’m not sure why I’m here either. I spent most of my childhood in stables and kennels, and they love to remind me of that fact whenever they can.”

“The kennels? You might be Fereldan, but last time I checked, you weren’t a mabari.”

He waggles his eyebrows comically. “You haven’t seen me slobber.”

He’s… nice, she thinks after a moment, with some surprise. He makes himself comical, seems to have as little time for the court as she does. He seems kind enough, and most of all, honest. Steadfast, honourable; all the most positive stereotypes of Fereldans personified. She wonders how someone like him ended up in a place like this.

“I’m sure it would impress me. I’m not much better. I spent most of my childhood in a forest, so…”

He frowns. “You’re Dalish?”

“Guilty as charged.” She glares down at herself, at the useless, delicate silk of her dress. “I’m used to hide, fur, leathers. I… I feel like I’m in drag.”

His eyes widen at that, and they run briefly over her before he looks away. It’s hard to tell in the low light of the garden, but she thinks he might be blushing. “Well, you certainly don’t _look_ like you are.” His voice is low, rough, and she’s surprised at the earnestness of it. “You were the loveliest woman in that ballroom.”

She gapes at him for a moment, unable to find words or formulate a response.

“I’m sorry,” he says hurriedly, “that was - “

She cuts off his words by pressing her lips to his. On tiptoe, her hands on his shoulders (and her speculations were right, she thinks appreciatively - he’s solid, muscular under her hands). It’s short, a brush before she draws back.

Now it’s his turn to stare at her, his eyes wide.

“I… Sorry. I don’t know why I did that. “ She turns, ready to return to the ballroom and pretend that this never happened. Or possibly to run into the night, never to be seen again. She isn’t sure which.

A hand on her arm, warm and gentle but firm enough for her to feel it. “Wait. Please.”

She turns back to him, and he’s watching her, his hand still on her arm. He gives her a nervous smile, stepping closer, closer…

He closes the distance between them, bringing his mouth to hers slowly, as if he’s giving her time to run. Then he’s kissing her. It starts gentle, tentative, but then she deepens it, pulls him with her as she walks backwards, her back hitting the tree trunk. He presses closer, the kiss turning open-mouthed and demanding.  He’s strong, so warm as to nearly be feverish. Somehow they’ve ended up with his hand cupping her face, his thumb occasionally brushing her cheek - there’s something soft, tender in that, even as he claims her mouth - and her hand on the small of his back, still urging him forward.

The sound of a bell ringing breaks the moment. They part, and he lays his forehead against hers, still sounding breathless. “Was that all right?”

She’s smiling so widely that her cheeks are aching. “That was… um, that was more than all right.”

His hand is still against her cheek, his thumb still stroking her cheekbone now and again. He smiles. “Good to hear.”

Creators, he’s gorgeous. She wants to kiss him again, and she’s about to do just that when she remembers that she’s only spoken to him for minutes, that she doesn’t even know his name. “I don’t normally… “ she begins lamely. “Uh. Do this. Kiss random men.”

He raises an eyebrow. “’Random men,’ am I? You certainly know how to make someone feel special.” He’s laughing, though, and there’s no sting in his comment. “I have to say, I don’t usually kiss random women either, but I didn’t expect to find someone like you here.”

“And _I_ have to say,” she responds, “that speaking from experience, I didn’t find your slobbering half bad.”

Now he’s truly, honestly laughing, a low, deep chuckle that does things to her insides, and as he pulls her to him again, she feels it against her lips. Then he sets about kissing her in earnest.

The bell tolls again, and she draws back. She says, “I seem to remember that the second bell is when you’re traditionally supposed to unmask.”

His face falls. “Ah. Yes.”

She’s a little terrified of the idea herself - she doesn’t want to become just a title and a marked hand again, especially now she’s found someone she actually likes - but she wonders at his own hesitation, the way he takes a minute step away from her and looks back to the palace. “I should probably go,” he says, his hands dropping from her waist. Another step backwards.

“Wait!” she protests. “I don’t even know your name.”

He takes a shaky breath. “I… really don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“You can’t just - At least tell me who you are.” She doesn’t know why she’s pleading, and she hates the sound of it.

His eyes are impossibly sad. “I doubt you’d like the answer.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Believe me, if you hated the nobles…” An uneven laugh. “This was really… You’re wonderful, but maybe we should leave it here. A happy memory. You know, something to laugh about with the grandchildren.”

“So that’s _it?_ ” Her voice is dangerously quiet. “You’re afraid of being seen with the knife-ear. Just like the rest of them.”

“No, I… Never that.”

“Then _what?_ ” she hisses. She shakes her head, turning to leave. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

He moves surprisingly fast for such a big human. In two strides he’s at her side. “It’s not you that’s the problem.”

When she stops, looks at him - she can’t help it - he raises his hands to the ties at the back of his mask. His fingers seem to fumble for a painful second, then he takes it from his face. He’s tense, expectant as he watches her, as if he’s pleading with her to understand but waiting for a blow.

Her first, ridiculous thought is that she was right: he is handsome. She sees sharp cheekbones, an aquiline nose, a jaw to die for and the full lips she’s been enjoying so much. Though he seems almost familiar…

Then it hits her.

“Oh,” she murmurs.

She kissed the king of Ferelden.

No, _she grabbed the king of Ferelden and kissed him against a tree._ Like a scene from one of Cassandra’s ridiculous smut novels.

“Oh, _shit,”_ she says.

“Happy now?” he says. His arms are crossed, his chin high, his posture defensive. Then he sags. “I’m sorry. I should have said something, but I wanted a night to be… just Alistair, I suppose.”

“I can understand that,” she says.

He raises a cynical eyebrow and says, “Oh really? You can, can you?”

“My - my name is Ellana.” Her voice is so small that she wonders if he’s heard her.

“Ellana,” he echoes, his face questioning, then it dawns on him. “As in Ellana Lavellan, _the Inquisitor?”_

Reluctantly, she nods.

He stares at her. The silence stretches. Then, out of nowhere, he bursts into laughter. “Of course. I mean, it’s not like anything in my life can be _normal,_ is it? Meet a nice woman at a party and she turns out to be the terrifying, sky-closing Herald.” He sounds borderline hysterical.

“How do you think I feel?” she protests. “The _king of Ferelden_ and I just… just…”

“…snogged?” he offers casually.

She glares at him. “ _Not_ helpful!”

“The king and the Inquisitor. You know, between us, we could probably cause a diplomatic incident.” 

She considers that. “True.” Then she considers him. “How long do you think you have before people come looking for you?”

“They’ll be pretty involved with the ball… A few hours, give or take. Why?”

A smile is creeping onto her face.

He realises, and his surprise is clear. It’s painful to see. “You mean you still want…?”

She lays her hand on his cheek, and when he leans into the touch, she says, “I met a nice man at a party. I’d like to spend some more time with him.”

His answering smile lights him up. He brings his hands to her mask, hesitates. “Can I?”

“Go ahead.”

He removes it slowly, carefully, and then he just _looks_ at her, drinking her in. “Ellana.”

"Alistair,” she returns. Addressing him so informally is probably breaking half a dozen Fereldan laws, and Josephine would be chewing on her etiquette manuals in panic if she were here right now, but it’s worth it for the way he beams at her.

“You’re even lovelier than I thought you’d be.” His voice is soft, and then he’s stepping forwards, kissing her again.

She reciprocates enthusiastically, and when they come up for air, she takes his hand. “Come on.”

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> I belatedly realised that this had been sitting on my Tumblr for a while, but I hadn't posted it over here. This is a pairing I'd never written before, but it made sense for the scenario.
> 
> This was prompted by reading Khirsah's [As the World Falls Down](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3188765/chapters/6930794) and wondering too much about masquerade ball AUs in general, and about what one would be like in the royal court.


End file.
